The Return: Death, Runaways, and Romance (Ocean Mist Book 3)

by Brenda Maxfield

  “Very funny.” I hoisted myself up by grabbing the top of the door. I left it open and staggered into the store walking only on the heel of my right foot.

  “Tiffany Phillips, why aren’t you in school?” Marvin greeted me over the thick glasses that distorted his eyes into black coffee cans.

  “Got a hurt foot,” I murmured between my teeth.

  I made my way to the beer cooler, but Dad was nowhere in sight. Cursing under my breath, I made it around to the cereal aisle and there he was, reading the label on a box of Raisin Bran.

  “Hello, Dad.”

  His shopping cart was wedged behind him, half-hidden. I limped closer, trying to peer inside.

  “Tiffany, you’re limping. What’s wrong with your leg?”

  “It’s my toe, and nothing.”

  He backed up against the cart, and it rolled a few inches. I reached out and grabbed the side of it, yanking it around to the front of his body. I gazed inside.

  Milk. One lousy carton of milk.

  I glowered at him. “Haven’t made it to the beer yet?”

  He placed the cereal box back on the shelf and turned to face me. “I told you I wasn’t going to drink.”

  “You’ve told me a lot of things.”

  He took a long breath. “Okay. I deserved that. But I’m not going to drink.”

  “Just like that.”

  “Yeah, just like that.”

  I put my weight on the handle of the cart and propped my throbbing foot on the wheel. “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “It can.” His bony face was wrinkled like a piece of leather off my old boots, and his eyebrows stuck out like scrawny branches of a fir tree. Beneath them, I saw the hope in his eyes.

  Sick.

  I released the cart, and it bumped a row of cereal, causing two boxes to fall to the floor. I hopped on my good leg and bent down to retrieve them, but Dad beat me to it. I knocked into his skeleton of an arm and started to tip over. He grabbed me around my waist with surprising strength and set me upright.

  “Whoa there, girl.” He smiled, and his yellow teeth blinked at me from between thin lips.

  “I’m not your girl,” I said. I walked out of the store with as much dignity as I could scrape together, given the fact I was hobbling like a cripple.

  Fresh Meat leaned over the seat and gazed out at me through the open window. “Well?”

  “He hadn’t gotten to the beer.” I didn’t know why I said that. I knew in my heart Dad hadn’t been lying — he wasn’t going to buy beer.

  Yet, anyway.

  Chapter Twelve

  Enthusiasm for my adventure with Fresh Meat drained into a deflated lump. All I wanted to do was go somewhere and sleep.

  “Still want to drive?” Fresh Meat asked, pulling away from Marvin’s.

  “Not really. You?”

  “We can go to my house.”

  I perked up. “Really? Your parents aren’t there?”

  “No. They’ll be gone till dinner time.”

  “Okay.” This could get interesting.

  He drove us to the northern edge of Ocean Mist, at least two miles from the center of town. After he had carried me home the other night, it must’ve taken him forever to get home.

  “Here it is.”

  We drove into a short driveway butted up to a narrow garage door. The house was detached and set back a few yards from the side of the garage. It was a typical beach cabin, smallish, with graying cedar siding. There was a row of birdhouses along the side yard, each one on its own pole. A huge ceramic pot of purple flowers sat on the wooden porch. I tried to decide whether they were real or not.

  I opened my door and smelled the wet asphalt. There was real grass in the front yard, and I caught a faint whiff of it, too. Most people’s yards were crab grass and patches of burrs, making it impossible to go barefoot in the summer. But this yard looked good.

  He hurried around to my side and held out his arms. “Carry you in?” he asked.

  “No, thanks,” I answered, ignoring the blood rushing to my head, making it difficult to breathe. We were going to be alone — completely alone. Again.

  Fresh Meat shrugged and turned toward the front walk, but not before I saw the eagerness in his eyes go flat at my refusal.

  What was the matter with me? Why couldn’t I just fold myself into his arms like a normal girl?

  By the time I limped to the porch, Fresh Meat was holding the lopsided screen door open for me. I grabbed the rail with both hands and boosted myself up each step. I entered a tiny living room, full of over-stuffed furniture with pillows lined up along every cushion. I had the feeling the room was holding its breath, ready to explode in a frenzy of feathers. There was a fireplace in the corner, a real one. Logs with flaky bark and wisps of hanging moss sat in a metal holder right in front of the screen. Candles decorated the mantle, along with framed photos.

  I hopped over and picked up the picture at the end. It was Fresh Meat from a few years before. He looked happy, carefree. Expressions I’d never seen on his face.

  “Nice pic,” I said.

  He took it from my hand and set it back in place. “My mom goes a bit nuts with photos. You warm enough? Want a fire?”

  “I’m never warm enough.”

  “Okay.” He knelt before the fireplace, and I watched him carefully stack the wood and stuff wadded-up newspaper beneath the grill. His movements were smooth and sure. Everything he did was beautiful. His arms, his legs, the look of concentration on his face. All beautiful. My heart fluttered, and I averted my gaze and moved to the couch.

  “Thought you had a sister.”

  He sank back on his haunches and sighed. “You always remember everything?”

  “No.”

  “She stayed back in Oregon.”

  “How come?”

  “She’s a senior. Didn’t want to leave Rand.”

  “Who does she live with?”

  He struck a match and lit the fire. The crackling sizzle of burning paper and the smell of dry wood filled the room. “You hungry or anything?”

  So, topic off-limits. I looked around. “Where is a person supposed to sit?”

  Fresh Meat gave a low chuckle. “Mom goes a bit nuts with pillows, too. Toss them on the floor.”

  I scooted a few of them aside and plopped down.

  Fresh Meat crammed more newspaper into the fire, and it whooshed up into a nice flame. “It’ll take a while to heat up in here, but then it’ll be hot. Probably too hot.”

  Like him. Too hot.

  I chided myself. What kind of an idiot thought such stupid things?

  He scooted a padded footstool in front of me. “Put your foot on that. Should help your toe.”

  Obediently, I stretched out my leg and rested it on the stool. It did feel better.

  Fresh Meat moved a few more pillows and sat beside me. “Want something to drink?”

  “Geez, F.M., you’re a regular host.”

  “F.M.?”

  Uh oh.

  “What’s F.M.?”

  “Nothing. Sorry.”

  He looked into my eyes. I tried to break his gaze but couldn’t do it. His energy surrounded me and held me captive.

  “What does F.M. stand for?” he asked. “Come to think of it, you’ve never said my name once.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “No, you haven’t.”

  “Okay, fine. Jason. There, you satisfied?” I raised my eyebrows, intending to stick my tongue out at him. But before I had a chance, he took my face in his hands, leaned forward, and kissed me.

  I jerked back. “What? I never said—”

  He put his mouth on mine again, harder. I struggled for a few seconds then let myself unwind into him. His nearness, the dancing light of the fire, and the growing heat in the room tugged at me and filled me with a strange sense of belonging.

  It was short-lived.

  What was I thinking, letting him get in my head? This was no good. I didn’t let anybody in my head. Co
nfusion surged through me, and I squirmed to get away.

  Fresh Meat dropped his arms and stared. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

  “I wasn’t going to force you into anything,” he said.

  “I know.” And I did know.

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  A burning sensation pricked the back of my eyes and with horror, I realized I was about to cry. I coughed and pretended to sneeze. The tears dried up.

  “You okay?”

  “Of course.”

  He scooted closer. “Now, where were we?”

  I turned my face away and studied the deep orange flames. I listened to the snapping and popping of the burning wood.

  “Can we just sit here for a while?” I asked.

  He exhaled. “Sure. No problem.”

  With his foot, he scooted my stool a bit to the left, causing me to turn more frontward. He readjusted his body, putting his arm around my shoulders. I could feel his muscles pressing gently against my back. I lay my head over onto him, closed my eyes, and despite my misgivings, relaxed into him.

  I was tired. So tired.

  I had no idea how much time passed when a sudden jerk woke me up. My eyes flew open to a dead fire. Fresh Meat fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his ringing phone.

  “Yeah?”

  The room was cold. I put my arms around myself, wondering how long we’d slept.

  “Okay, sure.”

  Fresh Meat rolled his shoulders and moved his head from side to side. “Neck’s sore.” He stood and looked down at me. From that angle, he seemed huge. “That was my mom. She wants me to run by the store and pick up some hamburger on my way home from school.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Three-thirty.”

  I jumped up, wincing when my weight came down on my toe. “Denny! We were supposed to pick up Denny.”

  Fresh Meat threw me my coat and yanked his on. “Come on. If we hurry, he might still be at school.”

  He put his arm around me and half-carried me to the car. Once inside, I leaned my head on the headrest. Had we really slept the whole day away? The whole day? I couldn’t absorb it.

  “You know what just happened, right?”

  “What?”

  “We slept together.” He cracked up.

  “We did not!”

  “Oh, but we did. For hours. I think I’ll post it online.” He glanced at me, and his eyes danced.

  I slugged his arm. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Sure, I would.”

  I hit him again. “No, you wouldn’t.”

  He braked at a stop sign and gazed at me. “You’re right. I wouldn’t.”

  Affection for me was all over his face. His gray eyes turned soft and gentle, but there was a hunger lurking there, underneath.

  With a start, I realized he was lonely. And maybe lost. I wasn’t sure which. All I knew was somewhere deep inside, we’d latched onto each other.

  It made me nervous.

  I bit my lip and pulled my gaze from his. “Hurry. We’re going to miss Denny.”

  He paused and then focused back on the road and pressed the accelerator. We eased through the intersection and continued on to the middle school. The buses had already come and gone. A few stragglers loitered across the wide stairs at the front of the school. Denny was not among them.

  “Crap. Head toward the condo. He’s probably walking.”

  Halfway home, I saw him, shoulders bent as if bracing against a strong west wind. But no wind blew off the ocean. There was barely even a breeze. I rolled my window down, and Fresh Meat pulled close to the curb, driving alongside Denny.

  “Sorry we’re late, Denny. Get in.”

  He ignored me and kept walking.

  “Please, Denny. I said sorry.”

  Still nothing.

  “Stop the car,” I said.

  Fresh Meat stopped. I opened the door and got out, half-hopping to catch up to Denny. I grabbed his arm from behind. He faltered then stopped.

  “I’m sorry. Don’t be mad.”

  He turned to me, and his eyes were moist. “I’m not just mad, Tiffany.”

  “Then what are you?”

  He sighed, shook his head, and then stretched up to his full height. “I’m sick of you. I wish I had gone to Chicago. Courtney’s right. You’re selfish.”

  His voice was loud and his face red. He was practically spitting. I gaped at him. Who was this kid?

  I stood transfixed, and no words came.

  Denny’s eyes narrowed into slits as he studied me. He shook his head again, pivoted on his heel, and left me gaping after him.

  In a flash, Fresh Meat was out of the car and beside me. “You okay?”

  I licked my lips and swallowed hard. “No.” I watched Denny move further and further away. “No,” I repeated.

  “He can walk. He’ll be all right.”

  Fresh Meat took my arm and helped me back to the car. He put me into the seat where I sat, frozen.

  I hadn’t counted on Denny turning snotty. Hadn’t counted on that at all.

  Fresh Meat slid into the driver’s seat. “I’ll take you home.”

  I nodded.

  We beat Denny there. Even though I argued against it, Fresh Meat escorted me to the door and wouldn’t leave until I was inside.

  Dad was sitting at the kitchen table with a newspaper spread out before him. He looked up when I came in. “Where’s Denny?”

  “Right behind me.” I eyeballed the stairway which suddenly appeared insurmountable. A regular Mt. Everest. All I wanted was to go upstairs and bury myself in bed for at least a year, but I knew I’d never make it to the top. I barely had the energy to stand there like an immobile ass. I glanced at the couch. Three steps. Maybe four, and I could collapse.

  “Tiffany? You need some help?” Dad scooted out from the table and came to my side.

  I pushed him away and hobbled to the couch. I fell into the permanent dip in the cushions where Mom had spent the last years of her life.

  “It’s your foot, isn’t it? Take off your shoe.”

  “No.” I closed my eyes and concentrated on breathing.

  “Take it off.”

  The front door opened, and Denny came through. He took in the scene and walked straight to the kitchen.

  “Denny, you’re home,” Dad said.

  “No thanks to Tiffany,” he mumbled from the counter.

  Dad pulled off my shoe and sock. When he saw my swollen green and purple toe, he whistled. “Good Lord, what happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Denny, grab some ice, would you? In a washcloth.”

  I tried to pull my foot from Dad’s grip, but he held tight. I gave up and lay back, staring at the ceiling. Denny came in with a rag full of ice.

  “Thanks,” Dad said. He held the rag on my toe. The cold sank through the throbbing pain, and I sucked air. “Don’t move, Tiffany. This will help.”

  Denny loomed over me. “What’d you do?”

  “Driftwood on the beach,” I said between gasps.

  He scowled at me and walked back into the kitchen. Dad stuck a throw pillow under my foot and balanced the ice on my toe. “Dinner’s almost ready. I’ll bring you a plate.”

  “Don’t bother,” I said, wanting to sound snotty. Instead, my voice dribbled out like a pathetic little girl.

  ****

  It was sometime in the middle of the night when I remembered that the Art Show was the next day. I hadn’t finished my frame, and Fresh Meat hadn’t even started his. Crap. After finding out I had to enter, I’d been secretly looking forward to it. My piece was good.

  I rummaged through the pile of junk on the floor next to my bed until I felt my cell. I punched Fresh Meat’s number.

  “Tiffany?” His voice was groggy. In my mind, I could see him leaning on his elbow in bed, his hair sticking up all over his head. I wondered if he slept naked or in a T-shirt and shorts. Hot, either way.

  “Tiffany, are you there?”
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  “Yeah. The Art Show is tomorrow.”

  He whistled. “Forgot about that.”

  “Me, too.”

  “No biggie, right? I mean, you don’t care, do you?”

  I closed my eyes and took a breath. Would caring about an Art Show make me soft?

  “Wait,” he went on. “You must care. It’s…” Rustling, then something falling on the floor. “…two in the morning. You do care.”

  “I worked hard, so I might as well enter.”

  “We could go to the school early. Maybe Mr. Hansen will be there, and you can get your art, and we’ll head to the show.”

  “It doesn’t work like that. I think you have to register or sign in before the day.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “You think we could break into the art room?”

  Silence. Then, “You mean break into the school to get your art?” I could tell he was sitting up now. His voice was clear. He was wide awake.

  “This is Ocean Mist. We don’t have any fancy alarm systems.”

  “Tiffany, every school has an alarm system.”

  “Fine. If you don’t want to—”

  “Even if we could, how do you expect to get your art into City Hall? Pretty sure they have an alarm system.”

  “If you don’t want to help—”

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “You don’t have to be an ass.”

  “I’m not being an ass. You’re being ridiculous. It’d never work. We’ll go early tomorrow.”

  I hung up, knowing full well I was being stupid, but I didn’t care. Right then in the middle of the night, it seemed like it was Fresh Meat’s fault my piece wasn’t entered. If it hadn’t been for him, I wouldn’t have been walking on the beach late that night. I wouldn’t have smashed my toe, and I wouldn’t be lying like a wounded bird after Dad helped me up the stairs — with his stinky breath blowing all over me and his scrawny chopstick arms around my shoulders.

  Nor would Denny be ignoring me like I was poison, yet clinging to Dad like he was fudge ice cream.

  Denny actually thought Dad cared.

  After all these years.

  If Dad cared, why hadn’t he cared when I was in Chicago? What kind of fool wouldn’t know his neighbor was a raging pervert? What kind of dad would leave his daughter in a Chicago apartment with the door unlocked?